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The chapter reviews a number of debates and arguments about contemporary American independent cinema. One of these arguments involves an examination of independent cinema as an institutional apparatus exemplified by the huge number of film festivals (with the massively popular Sundance Film Festival at the forefront), specialized theatre circuits, distributors’ associations, and even an Independent Spirit Award body, which have created a significant marketplace for low-budget films that differ from the blockbuster films and star vehicles of the major studios. Furthermore, it presents arguments about American independent cinema from an industrial-economic perspective focusing in particular on the ‘problem’ of the studios’ classics divisions and specialty film labels. As these companies traded heavily in the American independent film market, especially since the 1990s, it became extremely difficult to distinguish between ‘truly’ independent films (i.e. made by companies without affiliations with the majors) and films made with an ‘independent style’ by companies with corporate links with the majors. For those reasons, the chapter argues, critics, industry and audiences started using the label ‘indie’ instead of ‘independent’, which suggests a qualitative difference between the two.

As the majors became one by one parts of multinational conglomerates in the late 1960s and 1970s, they gradually turned their attention to the production of fewer but considerably more expensive films with the potential to do spectacularly well at the box office. However, this trend created gaps in the film market which were exploited by independent distributors such as American International Pictures and the Samuel Goldwyn Company, which managed to carve a small niche, mainly for sensational /exploitation films and art-house films, respectively. The first part of the chapter discusses the effects of conglomeration on the independent film sector and cites a number of examples of exploitation and art film companies that benefited from these effects. The chapter then focuses on the development of new distribution outlets (cable television and home video in particular) and examines how they created a new demand for films in the late 1970s and early 1980s that created the conditions for the beginning of what has become known as contemporary American independent cinema. Case studies: Foxy Brown (Hill, 1974), Return of the Secaucus Seven (Sayles, 1980).

American independent cinema is certainly a cinema in crisis, but it is also a cinema of crisis. A great deal of useful scholarship has been carried out on the notion of independence and the definition of indie cinema as a hybrid industry (‘indiewood’). This study partakes of that conversation, but from the perspective of the aesthetics and poetics of crisis that figure or visualise notions of ambiguity and the in-between. The cinema of crisis delineated here is one that explores the difficulty or impossibility of progression through extended moments of liminality and threshold. In a cinema of crisis, the concept of a plot is subservient to the investigation of what it means to exist in a moment of threshold within the context of a rite of passage; this moment may usher in transformation, or it may lead to stasis and not offer any form of resolution. What the viewer sees on screen are bodies that may halt, falter, freeze and become-surface, or evolve, mutate, dissolve and merge: these are bodies in crisis because they are either atrophying or becoming-other.

The Chapter examines David Mamet’s position within the independent and indie cinema landscapes. It starts with an overview of Mamet’s work in American cinema and points to the problem that despite the fact that the majority of his work has been for independent companies and studio specialty film divisions, he rarely has been examined as an independent filmmaker. This is despite the fact that as a filmmaker he has produced aesthetically distinctive films that differ considerably from mainstream Hollywood productions. Furthermore, the independent and indie film companies that have financed and distributed his films have increasingly utilised his name as an auteur brand name for the independent sector, which begs further the question of why David Mamet has rarely been discussed as an independent filmmaker. Through an examination of the trailers and other promotional material that surrounded the release of his films, the chapter explores the ways in which Mamet has been associated with American independent cinema.

The Introduction explains why The Spanish Prisoner is an important example of independent cinema and pays particular attention to the film’s generic specificity that has been misunderstood by critics. It also offers a brief overview of the four chapters that constitute it, with the first chapter examining key debates about the transition from an independent cinema to an indie cinema in the US, especially during the 1990s and the early 2000s; the second chapter looking at David Mamet’s place in the independent and indie cinema landscapes; the third one examining the film’s production and distribution history; and with the fourth and fifth scrutinising the film’s use of visual style and narrative, and of generic elements, respectively.

This chapter presents a commentary on John Sayles' film career. Sayles has long been referred to as America's leading independent filmmaker. More recently, he has been called both the grandfather and the godfather of American independent cinema. The press has also described Sayle's as a realist. Realism here means a particular kind of content, and that content is connected to a traditionally leftist position of support for workers. These are both aspects of Sayles' realism, but many of his films are neither gritty nor are focused on a particular class. The remainder of the chapter traces Sayles' path to filmmaking, where he began as writer of short stories and novels. It then turns to an analysis of his films, which include Liana (1983), Baby It's You (1983), The Brother from Another Planet (1984), Matewan (1987), Eight Men Out (1988), Lone Star (1996), Silver City (2004), and Honeydripper (2007).

By way of conclusion and further development of the notion of a cinema of crisis, I will extend briefly this study’s theoretical framework to the work of Harmony Korine, Kelly Reichardt and the ‘Mumblecore’ movement – or, more specifically, the work of Lena Dunham. However, in order to outline these further facets of a cinema of crisis, it is necessary at this juncture to summarise what its salient features are. I argued at the beginning of this book that the dominant and established approach to American independent cinema in critical and scholarly studies is to categorise it in terms of economic, production and distribution strategies.1 While this is important and useful, this focus on the meaning and context of the very term ‘independent’ has resulted in a paucity of material on the aesthetics and poetics of this kind of cinema and its specific effect or affects. By focusing on the themes of crisis, liminality, transition, mutation and transformation, I have tried to emphasise the ways in which American independent cinema appropriates and transfigures the tropes of European ‘Art’ cinema (as set forth in Gilles Deleuze’s Cinema 2) for its own particular purposes in order to challenge entrenched modes of thought.

Memento emerged into the new landscape of twenty-first-century independent film. This book is centrally concerned with placing Memento within that terrain constituted of the various discourses which construct independence. It explores the context of the film's production, the practices used in its marketing and distribution, its negotiation of narrative norms and its public reception. Discourses of independence are historically specific and unfixed, and describe relations of power. The Fimmaker Top 50 draws attention to the contested nature of independence within different authoritative groups. Memento provides a route to thinking about the ways in which the forces shaped late American independent cinema. Finally, an overview of the chapters included in this book is shown. It can be stated that this film defies easy comprehension and continues to be regarded by many as an example of independent creativity and innovation.

By using the Western as a genre ‘in crisis’, Dead Man counteracts the particular version of history it has perpetuated and come to be associated with. In its more traditional form, the Western is a genre that is associated with action, in particular purposive violent action that is rendered meaningful through a narrative context; indeed, a coherent narrative plays a crucial part in justifying the actions of the protagonists as it helps to sustain the particular vision of truth being promulgated within the film. When this logic that enchains generic images together fails or falters, the ‘grand narrative’ that the film upholds is thrown into crisis. Writing with reference to Deleuze’s assessment of the movement-image, Rodowick (2009: 107) notes that ‘these rational connections [between the images] also have an ethical dimension – they are expressive of a will to truth. They express belief in the possibility and coherence of a complete and truthful representation of the world in images.’

Overtly, the film is about the trauma these boys suffer after the girls’ suicides and their inability to deal collectively with their deaths. On a formal level, however, the film is concerned with something quite different: the implicit violence of the adolescent rite of passage that pushes individuals into prescribed roles, and the irreparable harm that this can cause. It is this ‘implicit violence’ or reality that the boys truly cannot face up to. The film contains a lot of dreamlike and fantastical imagery; Coppola deliberately draws upon advertising campaigns from the 1970s and the photography from this period by William Eggleston and Sam Haskins in order to create instantly recognisable images that are evocative of a particular kind of feminine beauty that is at once both infantile and pornographic. The abundance of these fantastical kinds of images is one of the film’s most salient features.

Exploring the tensions between the themes and visual style, Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York is an exemplary manifestation of dissensus: ‘the presence of two worlds in one’ (Rancière, 2010: 37). Staging and subsequently thwarting middle-class America and classical Hollywood style, the film ultimately allows us to envision ways of being beyond the apparent “end of history”. Yet, in so doing, the film also highlights the tendency towards irony in contemporary American art cinema: a feedback-loop, art-housing the art film spectator safely, intellectually, inside the space of the film. This takes us to the political impasse of art cinema in general: when formal innovation meets cultural critique, a redistribution of the sensible occurs and makes possible subsequent changes outside of the cinema.

This chapter discusses how Halloween (1978) was developed and created. John Carpenter's name appears above the title on Halloween, but the project existed before he came on board. Independent film producer Irwin Yablans rightly claims the mantle of ‘The Man Who Created Halloween’, the title of his 2012 autobiography. The project reached Carpenter with the tentative title The Babysitter Murders before it became Halloween shortly thereafter; but Carpenter is still quick to credit Yablans for conceiving the title and the concept. Yablans' marketing and distribution ingenuity played a large role in securing Halloween's success but it went far beyond anyone's expectations, reportedly making back its original budget sixty-fold in its initial release alone. It seems apparent that Halloween was uniquely positioned to benefit from overlapping currents in the New Hollywood, the American independent cinema, ‘youth cinema’, and the horror film. Halloween was also well positioned to benefit from a new wave of academic interest in the horror film.

Somewhere focuses not only on a life-crisis, but also on an extended liminal moment in a character’s life. Johnny’s life is in suspension; his lack of focus and direction is visualised in the frequent scenes that are set in his car, which often seem to violate continuity of space and direction. In other words, the moments that the main character ‘drives’ forward actually convey circularity and confusion. Indeed, as in Broken Flowers, the notion of ‘making nothing happen’ becomes central to our experience of the film. The film’s presentation of time, space and character is deeply imbricated with Somewhere’s central character as each facet helps to articulate the severity of his apathy and inability to change.